


Death in Reverse

by WistfulNymph



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1920s, Angst, Angst and Romance, Character Death, Dark, Deal with a Devil, Death, Depression, Drama & Romance, F/F, Falling In Love, Gen, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Female Character, LGBTQ Themes, Love, Memories, Mystery, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Original Fiction, POV Female Character, POV Original Female Character, Platonic Romance, References to Depression, Romance, Sad, Sad Ending, Suicide, Tragic Romance, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23828923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WistfulNymph/pseuds/WistfulNymph
Summary: "Why do the most beautiful memories hold so much pain?"The story of one life-saving encounter and a painful parting. The story of a tender feeling that wasn't meant to be born. The story of a doomed soul bleeding in cigarette smoke to the rhythm of the foxtrot. The story of a tragedy that gave hope for eternal bliss."Having lost hope, I asked myself again and again: is it possible, and is it worth living without the right to hope? Now, finally, the answer is clear to me."
Relationships: Eve/Narrator





	1. -1-

**Author's Note:**

> My own translation of a short story written by me.

She entered a smoke-filled restaurant hall in the late evening, like the wind that blows into an open window in the wake of a thunderstorm - a weightless motion of a gale wind in the midst of laughter and cigarette smoke. She was full of freshness and freedom, her sincere smile was not like the ones that we had, dim and half asleep. Her steps were fast and abrupt, although she moved with the grace and agility of an angel. She wore a champagne-colored dress, a shimmering glass necklace, and jingling bracelets on both wrists. And though she lacked the elegance and refinement of other guests’ dresses, her appearance had such an inexplicably natural beauty coming from within that it obscured any trinkets, however expensive and skillfully made they could be. The lady was so genuinely alive that, compared to her, all those present seemed to me like faded copies of themselves, ghosts of real people.   
Her name was Eve. She came accompanied by one of my friends who belonged to our small creative society, and who appeared to be her distant relative. After having introduced her to us, my friend said that she was traveling through the capital on her way to a small sanatorium in the mountains, so she was able to visit him. She called herself an unknown admirer of watercolor painting, adding that her hobby had been too shallow for her to be called a professional artist. She had not created any significant paintings - just small flower patterns for numerous signboards, leaflets, trinket boxes, and other nice-looking trifles, as she put it. However, in her opinion, art could not be divided into right and wrong, true and amateurish. Art, as she said, was valuable in itself, no matter who produced it. It was an idealistic and beautiful thought with which all my friends who attended our dinner agreed, and, to my shame, I was hypocritical enough to support them so as not to ruin Eve's impression of us.   
This is how the story of my demise had begun. I am by no means putting any blame for my death on Eve! Far from that, I am only thankful to her for those moments of delight that she gave to me, having gratified me with her presence. It was my sweetest pleasure to be near her, to breathe the same bitter air that she was breathing, to watch the gleams of candle flames shining in the beads of her cheap jewelry, to touch her tender fingers while dancing... Those few hours that I spent close to her were the most precious memory and the last thing I had to treasure in my worthless life. Every look we exchanged that night, every word she said to me, and her fleeting smile - how badly I want these shatters of the time past to last forever. Alas, it was impossible, for it was the behest of the inexorable fate which defeated me as well.


	2. -2-

Two months had passed since we met, and there wasn't a day when I had not remembered that night. It was the only reason that kept me alive while killing me at the same time. How bitter and ridiculous it is that something dear to one's heart, which was supposed to make one happier, in fact, turns out to be the beginning of a painfully sweet agony, which we tend to prolong day after day, unable to stop it. However, it was because of what happened that night that I was able to understand how wonderful it can be to exist in this monotonous world if one can experience such marvelous moments. And how weak a person can become if they only live hoping for the return of this precious time. How weak I have been all these days! Having lost hope, I kept asking myself the same question over and over again: Is it possible and worth living without even the right to hope? Now, finally, the answer is clear to me.  
That night was the same as many others in an endless cycle of parties, banquets, and friendly meetings that our creative union enjoyed. What a proud name - the creative union! The unity of minds and souls for the sake of art, the bond of ideas, the integrity created by the Muses! In fact, we were just the pariahs of true art, unworthy of being called the real masters. Each of us knew it deep down, but no one was ready to admit it to themselves in the first place, let alone to call themselves a pretender and a charlatan. We marred the paper with our flawed attempts in writing - unfinished excerpts of the upcoming great novels, accidental lines of the upcoming celebrated sonnets, reminiscences that were meant to be part of the memoirs of our wonderful lives, confessions of love to strangers, and disheveled notes about what we had seen. We called it art. O unfortunate, stillborn products of inept verbiage! That is what our occupation was, no matter how much we deceived ourselves and each other by speaking about it as if it had any value.  
We ourselves were as miserable creatures as the things we brought into being. We imagined ourselves as the almighty creators, sources of beauty, blessed by the Muses, and fiercely protected our right to be deluded. Our life consisted of arrogant pretense with which we could indulge ourselves to the point of oblivion. Nothing stood in our way; we had privileges that we did not deserve - money, social standing, clothing and jewelry in the latest fashion, the opportunity to have regular dinners in luxurious restaurants, and if our daily life bored us, we could travel at any time, far or near, to spice up the wasting of our lives with a new window view and people speaking a different language. With the exception of barely two members of our so-called creative union, none of us had ever made any effort to earn these luxuries on our own - we obtained all of the above, and much more simply because we were fortunate enough to be born into the right families and to have the audacity to justify our idle lifestyle to those who provided us with significant resources.   
There is no need to describe our monotonous pastimes. They always started and ended the same way, except for some blatantly undignified incidents. Pretentious attire, shining candles, smoldering cigarettes, glittering alcohol, clinking glasses, thundering music, slightly dimmed looks, crooked smiles, drunken laughter, resonant cheers, first lively, then languid movements, grand promises that had never been fulfilled, sentimental farewells - everything was so predictable and hackneyed. Over the years spent with my creative associates, I have learned by heart how each of our parties would unfold. All the word decorum, all the passing glances, all the dramatic pauses, all the expressive gestures were familiar to me. I knew well in advance how I would feel during each of our meetings and after them. Nothing could surprise me.   
I was sick of everything. I was overwhelmed by gloom and aversion to my own life. One day, I realized that my entire existence was an endless repetition of actions that I could foresee in detail. My life - rich, lush, joyous, dreamed of by many people who were more worthy of it - for me, it became a living hell, albeit, a beautiful hell. It was as if I had been living in a cage made of gold and precious stones, behind the delicate grid of which the gentle spring sun was shining, while I could not leave it, although the key to this cage was in my hands all the time. Why was it that way? I could not tell. Perhaps it was my weakness and indifference to my own life that was to blame, as if I had watched it from the outside, as though it had never belonged to me. Nothing belonged to me - no tangible objects that surrounded me in my house, nor the house itself, nor the products of my unskilled creativity on wrinkled paper. All this was possessed by that external, material person who followed all the rules while talking to people, smiled at specially designated moments, attended countless events in faceless venues and colorful mansions, wrote meaningless rhyming lines at dawn after another sleepless drunken night...   
And had there ever been me? Was there something called "I", or was it just an illusion created by the flesh and blood version of me that had taken over my life? It had seized everything, leaving behind only my memories and feelings, throwing them away like an unnecessary burden, to a place where no one could find them. She did not remember the things she was told, did not feel emotions, did not have desires, did not know what she dreamed of and hoped for. It was all hidden in a bottomless abyss, often called the soul. Every day I heard her voice, saw her eyes and her smile reflected in the mirror and wished for her soonest death. I wanted her to suffocate, crumble, dissolve, and die - perhaps, then I would have been free.


End file.
